


Backwards Take

by BryroseA



Series: I Fell In Love Again [1]
Category: Veronica Mars (Movie 2014), Veronica Mars (TV)
Genre: Canon, F/M, Post-Series Pre-Movie
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-28
Updated: 2014-03-28
Packaged: 2018-01-17 08:56:28
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,566
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1381543
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BryroseA/pseuds/BryroseA
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“A backwards take on the Book of Job. His life was wager and mine’s a joke”<br/>--“Prosthetic Love, ” Typhoon</p><p>Logan Echolls makes a call. Set immediately pre & during the Veronica Mars movie. No spoilers beyond the first 8 minutes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Backwards Take

 

“Echolls, you made bail.”

Logan lifts his head up, coming out of his daze. _Who would have...? Dick. Of course._  

He follows the deputy down the hall to pick up his belongings. Jeans. Dark blue button up shirt. Keys. Phone. 

He exits the back rooms of the Balboa County lock up and enters the processing area. Dick Casablancas is waiting there, wearing a slightly anxious looks that ill befits his tall, muscular frame and nonchalant surfer boy vibe.

Logan passes the sheriff.

“I’ll see you again real soon, handsome. We’ve got your court date all set.” Dan Lamb practically croons his insults.

A million wise-ass retorts flood Logan’s brain. He pushes them down. Bites them back. It’s harder for him to quiet the jackass in his brain than it has been in a long time. Being in this place, _again_ , and accused of murder, _again_ , sure has brought the old instincts rushing back.

Wordlessly, he turns and heads out the door; Dick trails behind him.

Out in the sunshine, he turns to his friend.

“I told you not to do it.”

“What?”

“1.5 million for bail. You must have put your house up as collateral. How did you scare up the $150,000 deposit so quickly?”

“The house isn’t in any danger. You’re not planning to skip out and head for Mexico, are you?” Logan’s mouth twists. _Not now, I’m not._

“Look man, if you thought I was just going to leave you in there…”

“I’ll pay you back.”

Dick shoots him a look, offended. “Don’t be an ass.”

Logan swings into Dick's bright red jeep with a controlled motion. Shaken out of the stupor that had overtaken him in the jail, his mind spins with images, thoughts, and questions.  _Who do I call at Base to talk to about this? Carrie's body, limp hand dangling. Carrie laughing, then face contorted in anger. I’m supposed to ship out in about three weeks. Calling Her during the first murder accusation, "Can you work some of your magic that gets people out of this?" I'll have to meet with JAG Corps. Carrie, God Carrie. What the hell happened? What could have happened?_  

Dick has been clearing his throat hesitantly for the last two miles. 

"Hey man, I'm...I'm real sorry about Carrie."

Logan nods, head down, fingers fidgeting with his phone. "Thanks."

"Did you... I mean ... Do you want to talk about it?"

"No." 

"Ok. Ok, cool man, I just thought ..."

"Thanks Dick. Really. For everything. But, no."

The silence in the jeep stretches out. Logan plays with his phone, opening the contact list, tapping the screen. Dick, glancing over, catches the motion. 

"Nah, man. Don't" 

"What?" Logan asks with surprise. 

Dick nods at the phone in Logan's lap. "I know what you're thinking about and I don't think it's such a good idea."

Logan glances down. His contact log is open to the "V"s. His fingers have betrayed his thoughts with a motion he's made dozens, hundreds, hell, maybe thousands of times. A tap, a swipe, then stare at Her name. He hasn't done it in a while—was the last time seven months ago after Carrie's big relapse? _Yeah, that sounds right_. The name used to have a picture beside it; Her behind bars, expression slightly surprised, lips compressed. The last time he ported his numbers over into a new phone, though, his pictures were lost. It had been a point of pride not to search out another photo to replace it. Now she is just a blank, faceless head, the default icon. If he closes his eyes he can still see the image of her, locked up. 

 _Play it off._ "I don't know what you're talking about."

"Whatever, dude. Rich guy kryptonite there is not the answer to this problem. You need a lawyer. A good one." 

Logan nods and stares out the window, ready to be done with this conversation.  _She was a lawyer._ He knew that. Or was she yet? His knowledge of Her was so limited now; gleaned through accidental mentions here and there. He stopped compulsively Googling Her about the same time he got together with Carrie. 

_I need a lawyer. Where the hell am I going to get a lawyer?_

 _____________________________________________________________________________________________

 

As it turns out, the problem is more where _isn’t_ he going to get a lawyer.

The next day, Logan pulls his midnight-blue BMW convertible up to the valet parking kiosk of his third legal appointment of the day. All day he has been numb. He feels like he has been operating on auto pilot, not feeling or reacting. People notice him, though.

Everywhere he goes, Carrie’s death is splashed across headlines, televisions, radio waves. When he pulled into the drive-through to get lunch, the woman behind the counter was watching footage of him being led away in handcuffs.

People stare. They take pictures, sometimes. His inner jackass keeps a constant running monologue of quips _(“No ma’am I’m not him. I’m his evil twin; wait, eviler twin.”_ ). He lets none of them out.

He hands the keys to the girl at the valet stand. She hands him a ticket in return, silent. As he walks away, he hears her hiss to his turned back, “Murderer!” Logan’s shoulders stiffen, but he keeps walking. What does he expect? Found passed out next to her body. ( _God, her_ body _. Carrie._ ) That video of him going at it with Sean has been playing non-stop. 

Later, someone spits at his feet as he walks down the sidewalk.

_What do I do? I don’t know what to do._

 _________________________________________________________________________________________

 

The next morning, Logan is in the kitchen of Dick's beach house, fingers drumming on the counter-top, contemplating his legal situation.

McMahon and Clarke, the firm he used the last time he was accused of murder -- Logan's mouth curls wryly; _how many people can say that?_ \-- have closed. A bunch of partners got taken up on embezzlement charges. _Score one for the Neptune legal system._ Word is out that he is still unrepresented, and the field day the press is having with the case is bringing out the sharks.  

He spent yesterday interviewing three lawyers, each with completely different strategies, not one of whom legitimately believed he hadn't killed Carrie. He could tell. Twelve more firms have called and left messages on his cell and Dick's house phone. JC Borden alone has left three. Logan feels paralyzed, mind bouncing from question to question with no answers in sight. _Who do I pick?_ He is comfortably well off, but not wealthy enough anymore to keep switching out lawyers and paying out retainers if someone didn't work out. _I need a good lawyer. The best I can get. I don't want to have to think about this! If only Carrie—_

Frustrated, Logan slams the flat of his hand down on the counter, making the fruit basket jump.  

"Logan." Dick's voice drifts out of the living room. "Come here man, you need to see this."

As Logan crosses the room he hears a familiar female voice holding forth through the television speakers. Sure enough, it's Trish Turley, bottle blonde hair teased up to Jesus, ranting on CNN about - _what else?_ \- the gruesome murder of his ex- girlfriend. 

"...and what did he do THEN, when Carrie finally got wise to his abusive ways and threw him out? Logan Echolls murdered her. In cold blood." She slings the words out with relish, popping the consonants and punctuating each with a sharp hand gesture. "He snuck up behind her while she was in the bathtub and dropped an electrical appliance in the water. What kind of appliance? We don't know. But we do know that he was sick enough—SICK enough—to first get an extension cord to extend the reach. This man," She pauses before going in for the kill. "THIS man, ladies and gentlemen, should fry!" Logan’s picture flashes on the screen, juxtaposed next to video of Carrie's body, zipped into a bag, being wheeled out of her mansion. "Lets go to the phones!"

Logan's hand grips a chair back; he is shaking so hard that the wooden legs vibrate against the floor. _That bitch. What am I going to do? Not again! Carrie._ He wants to punch someone, hit someone, cry; no, definitely punch someone. He has to get out. 

Ignoring Dick, he pushes through the door leading to the beach, leaps the low wall surrounding the patio, and starts to run across the sand. _Carrie, Carrie. What do I do? Not again. Her..._

Neptune's beaches aren't exactly crowded on this random Tuesday morning, but they aren't deserted either. As Logan runs, he draws looks. He can see shocked faces, a few phones taking pictures. Maybe they'll end up in the tabloids _. Gee, wonder what that would be like!_ He keeps running. 

A mile and a half down the beach from Dick's house, past the range of the parking lot crowd, is a cove where the beach bends into rising cliffs. At the apex of the bend is a giant black tide pool rock, its flat crown thrusting up ten feet above the beach. With practiced moves, Logan wedges his tennis shoes into crevices and scales the rock. At the peak, his breathing harsh, he sinks to a crouch. The top of the rock is smooth, worn by the tide, and countless waves have dug small, irregular pools across its broad, flat surface. A wave crests, splashing high against the rock's side and sending a small wash into the pools. Logan struggles to control his breathing, staring into a pool at small red anemones, tentacles waving with the influx. The Navy has helped him with his anger, muted his flourishes, but the urges are still there. 

He sinks back, uncaring of the wet that seeps from the rock through his shorts. His head is pounding. _Not again._ _What do I do? Oh God, Carrie._ He doesn’t love her anymore; hasn’t for a while, if he’s honest with himself. _How could I, after the last year?_ It was a relief when they finally broke up. _But I still care about her. A lot, dammit. They are dragging me through the mud and dragging her with me. _He snorts. _That’s a change._

Tears burn the corners of his eyes. _What the fuck kind of cosmic joke is my life? Everyone leaves. Everyone. Mom, Lilly, Carrie. Her. No one comes back. It’s always my fault. Not again._

Picturing the faces of the fine upstanding citizens he ran past on the beach, the valet, the drive through lady, globules of spit, a realization washes over Logan. This time, he's going down. He's been here before - Lilly, Felix - and pulled through ( _with Her_ _help,_ his mind whispers) but not this time. His luck is up. ( _Ha! Third time is the charm.)_ Who will believe him? Like father, like son. Those who do believe him, Dick and some of the other pilots, probably, are powerless to help. He is going to jail for the rest of his life or, well, California has the death penalty, right? 

 _Maybe_ , that treacherous whisper offers, _you could see Her before it all goes down. One last time._ Logan stares out at the horizon, eyes following a swooping seagull. _Would she come, if I called? It has been nine years. Nine years. No contact, just a wall of silence. That is a pretty strong statement.  And yet ..._

He thinks of Her in the Neptune High bathroom ("Give me something I can work with!") and searching Lilly's air vents for his letter. She was mad at him then - furious, both times - but she still helped. And she's a lawyer. She would know...what to do. The thought is seductive. Dick is loyal to the bone, but basically useless in this situation.  _Who else do I have?_ It might be nice to hear someone's opinion he actually valued. Someone with whom he didn't have to lead, always. 

God, would she come? 

It might not even be her number, anymore. Probably wasn't. Who has the same number for nine years? ( _"You do," the voice whispered_ ). She's living across the country; of course her number has changed. 

This logic is enough to convince him. It's risk free. Pick up the phone. Touch her name. Feel the thrill of thinking, for just one second, that there might be one person in the whole world who could believe him _and_ help him. It doesn’t matter because she won't be there. 

Logan reaches into the pocket of his shorts for the phone and, before he can lose his nerve, taps Her name for the first time in nine years. The phone rings once, twice ... then goes right to voicemail. "Hi, you have reached ..." 

He slams the “End Call” button, heart pounding wildly. It's her. _Her_. Holy crap it's still her. An involuntary smile spreads across his face. _Wait, hell no, did she just screen my call? Send me to voicemail?_  

It's harder to tap the button the second time, but he's in now. The phone rings. He holds his breath. She answers. 

She breathes into the phone and Logan’s eyes close. "So, what's new with you?" He registers her faux jocular tone. _Her voice. I am not nineteen. I am not nineteen._  

"I need your help, Veronica." Her name is rusty on his lips.

"I don't really ... do that anymore." 

"Look, can you just hear me out?" _Holy crap, holy crap, holy crap_ , his mind chants. "You've heard about what happened, I assume?"

 “Yes, of course, I wanted to …” She trails off and uncomfortable silence settles.

In his mind, of course, she is riding to the rescue like she always does – always _has_ – but, does he want that? Lilly. Carrie. Two dead Echolls ex-girlfriends. _Not Her, NOT Veronica_. Maybe she should just stay …

 “I haven’t worked a case since I was at Hearst. Maybe, if you want, I could talk to my Dad?”

“No Veronica. No. That’s not what I want; for you to solve the case.” _That is exactly what you want, you asshole,_ taunts the voice. He searches wildly for what to say. “I just … I have a million lawyers bombarding me, wanting to represent me. I have no idea who to pick. How to pick. I need help—“

“Weeding out the shysters?” She cuts in. Her voice is relieved. This is a request she can handle.

 Well that is true, too. A truth. He does need that kind of help.

“Yeah there’s no one out here who knows anything about legal stuff. No one, anyway, that I…” _love_ “…trust.”

“Logan …”

In the background he faintly hears someone call her name, “Ms. Mars, they’re ready for you.”

“Logan I have to go. I’ll call you back in about three hours, if that’s ok, and we can figure out the details.”

 _Is that a yes?_ “Sounds good.”

“Is … this number a good one to reach you at?”

“Yeah.” He says, softly. “This is still me.”

“Ok then.”

“Ok.”

“Um … bye.”

“Goodbye Veronica. Thank you.”

She’s gone.

Logan stares out at the waves for long minutes; receding, then returning, crashing against the rock. His shoes and ass are soaked, he realizes and starts to get up.

For a moment he stands there, on top of the rock, surf crashing around its base. A seagull dives.

_She’s coming back._

_What the hell did I just do?_

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Backwards Take: Podfic](https://archiveofourown.org/works/2110002) by [StarlightAfterAStorm](https://archiveofourown.org/users/StarlightAfterAStorm/pseuds/StarlightAfterAStorm)




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